


just wanna hear you say you got me baby

by londongrammar



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, hozier - take me to church.mp3, there's a reason this is rated e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londongrammar/pseuds/londongrammar
Summary: ...are you mine?*Tessa, Scott, and the small issue of claiming your lover.Inspired by an Instagram story last week, the Ottawa show and two posts on Monday, April 30th.





	just wanna hear you say you got me baby

**Author's Note:**

> tessa on monday, april 30th: goes all out on instagram  
> me: what if something... triggered this... must.... write...
> 
> thank you guys SO much for the incredible reaction to my first two stories! I hope you like this one!
> 
> tessa, if you are reading this, i'm sorry.

It’s bothering her.

 

It shouldn’t.

 

But it does.

 

She knows Scott. Truly knows him. There’s no part of him that is a mystery to her. They’ve spent a lifetime by each other’s side and she’s seen it all, his good and his bad days. She learned to recognize the difference between his personality trait and his defense mechanisms. And she was there when he deconstructed every single one of them and learned to be a better man, in therapists’ offices and mental coaching sessions and on late nights on the floor of his living room, with his head in his hands.

 

He was there for her, too. Saw her every secret fear and buried insecurity come to the surface, witnessed as she made her way through every single on of them. He stood by her and watched her work on her faults, leave the doubt behind and grow into the woman she is now - steadfast, methodical and _free_.

 

And when they were finally ready to be honest with themselves and each other, they decided they wouldn’t ever look back.

 

All of this to say, she doesn’t doubt him. Not for a second.

 

She doesn’t even need to ask him what happened in that bar. He is genuine, open and generous, and those are some of her favorite qualities of him. People get this wrong about him all the time: they think if he’s affectionate or friendly, it’s because he’s got a beer or three in him. What they don’t realize is, he doesn’t need booze to build a connection with a stranger. That’s just what he is like.

 

She’s seen him meet thousands of fans and engage in lively discussions, reach out to pat their arms while making a point, hug them hello and goodbye. It doesn’t cost him anything to make a person happy and give them a good story, he always says, and so he obliges most of the requests people make, even the silliest ones. He’s seen him give countless cheek kisses and make funny faces for selfies.

 

It’s Saturday, and this happened on Wednesday night, and she’s just seeing this video now, in a hotel room in Ottawa, as she fights boredom by scrolling through her mentions on Twitter.

 

A funny feeling sets into her stomach.

 

She can picture it now. The girl approached him for a chat, saw him give her the time of day, and thought, it couldn’t hurt to ask for a brief dance. Not like she’s stepping on anyone’s toes, anyway. He’s single and it’s a free country, right?

 

What if the girl knew he was taken? Would she have dared to make a move then?

 

Or what if Tessa had been there?

 

Oh, right.

 

If she had been there, they would have spent the night burning each other up with heated looks and keeping a safe distance between them the whole time. The songs they love would play, and they’d rhythmically tap their feet on the floor and their knuckles on the table, to suppress the urge to dance together. Too many eyes, and too many camera phones, and too much to lose if someone gets a sniff of the real story.

 

They won’t let anyone reduce twenty-one years of work and dedication to a tabloid cover, and they are reluctant to have everyone put their relationship under the microscope, analyze their every move and predict doom every step of the way.

 

They made the decision together, and they want to wait at least until they’ve finished forging their post-retirement plans. She doesn’t need the validation of a _People_ article to know her heart, or his.

 

Still.

 

If she was in that bar, she wouldn’t have dared to dance with him the way that girl danced with him.

 

She flops onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling, for what seems like forever.

 

*

 

She gets out of the shower, pulls on a bathrobe and sits at the desk in front of the mirror, trying to collect her jumbled thoughts. She has just started combing through her wet hair, when Scott returns after being out with Patrick.

 

“Hey,” he says, while shrugging off his coat and taking off his shoes. When she doesn’t greet him hello, he looks up.

 

She isn’t going to put it off for even a second.

 

“I saw you dancing,” she says.

 

He looks utterly confused.

 

“You mean today at practice?” he asks.

 

“I mean last Wednesday, at the bar, with a girl,” she says, quickly.

 

He doesn’t react.

 

“She posted it on Instagram. It’s all over my mentions,” she adds, with what she hopes is a stony face.

 

A beat.

 

“Tessa, what’s wrong?” he finally says.

 

He hasn’t moved from his spot next to the door.

 

She wants him to run towards her and pull her into his arms.

 

She wants him to open that door and get the hell out of her sight.

 

“Tessa. I know you don’t care about me doing a favour for a fan,” he says firmly. “What’s going on?”

 

His face is unreadable _as hell_.

 

*

 

(Another thing that people get wrong about Scott:

 

When he wants to, he can keep _everything_ in.

 

Yes, he’s sensitive, empathetic, and open about his emotions, not one to shy away from a heartfelt moment or unabashed affection. People think he can’t help himself. But when he chooses to, he can school his expression into nothing at all; keep every feeling in until he blows it all wide open.

 

They talked about it that night, warming each other up underneath the covers of a single bed in Pyeongchang, Canada gear strewn around the room that Kaitlyn had graciously vacated, two little slices of gold on the edge of the nightstand.

 

“You needed your glasses today, old man,” she teased him, tracing a circle around his belly button while he was combing through her hair.

 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, widening his eyes comically and pretending to be offended.

 

“At the Kiss and Cry,” she specified. “I saw you squinting up at the screen, trying to make out the score, see if we’d won.”

 

 _Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir have earned in the free dance one hundred and twenty two point_ PJ had said through the speakers, and Tessa hadn’t heard anything more because she knew what _twenty two_ meant. It meant they’d done it. She had gasped and laughed, not daring to believe it, even when Patrice turned to her and resolutely said, _it’s enough_.

 

 _Is it?_ she’d heard someone ask, and surely it wasn’t her, because how could she speak on a moment like this? On the jumbotron, Scott had narrowed his eyes, trying to see the score properly and make the calculation. It had taken PJ a bit to get to the end of her sentence, and these nine seconds had stretched out, on and on, until the thunder in her ears had died down and she heard the words, _first place_. She had squealed, and Scott had jumped up, roaring, scaring Marie-France half to death, slamming and kicking the board before turning to her and pulling her into the tightest embrace they’d ever shared outside of their bed.

 

“What do you mean, see if we’d won? I knew we’d won,” he said then, laughing and throwing his head back on the pillow.

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“I mean, first of all, I knew we’d won after we skated, right? You knew too, I felt it when we hugged on the ice,” he said, and she nodded. He paused for a moment. “When we got to sit down, I thought to myself that I’d held you too tight out there, and I’d hurt you.”

 

“You couldn’t,” she interjected, bringing her hand up to his chest.

 

He smiled. “So when I heard our score, I immediately knew we’d won. I just didn’t react. I tried to focus on calming down, and it was _impossible_ ,” she giggled, because _yeah_ , “and I thought to myself, don’t touch her until you’ve let it out. So I kept it in until it was time, and even with the kicking and the screaming I still hugged you until we both couldn’t breathe. I just wanted you in my arms.”

 

“Well, it’s your lucky day, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” she said.)

 

*

 

He is always open when it comes to her and them, sharing every emotion, because it’s what they learned to do, step by step, when they worked through their issues. He only ever hides his expression when they’re at an impasse, and he’s trying to gauge her reaction, figure out how to best proceed. He’s doing it now. His face is neutral, and she knows he’s trying to read into her, see what’s bothering her, and make it all go away.

 

It isn’t going away.

 

She might as well talk.

 

“She thought you were single. She thought she had a chance.”

 

“What?”

 

“She came over to you, and probably flirted with you, and touched you,” she says, her voice deceptively quiet and even. “And thought she had every right to. There was nobody with you.”

 

He’s still listening and his face hasn’t changed at all. Her voice gets louder now, her heart is heavier.

 

“And even if I’d been there? What difference would it have made? As far as anyone knows, I’m your good friend, and you _are_ single and they _do_ have a chance. You’re a guy who just won the Olympics and can just go out and fuck anyone-“

 

He takes three strides towards her, grabs her arm and pulls her up from the stool, brings her against him.

 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” he says, and his face of full of expression now. It’s the picture of red-hot anger. “Who would I _ever_ want to fuck, other than you?”

 

She stays silent.

 

“No one! The answer is _no one_!” he says, almost in disbelief. “I’m with you!”

 

“They don’t know that!”

 

“I do, and you do, and that’s enough!”

 

“Is it?”

 

His eyes flash. He almost takes a step back, but then he seems to think better of it and stands his ground. He takes a deep breath and his voice comes out in a whisper. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“Because I love you,” she finally says, and the floodgates are open. “I don’t want the fucking vultures to dissect everything we do, and I don’t want our work to be forgotten because of the gossip, and I don’t regret the decision we made, but I love you”. He hasn’t loosened his hold on her arms, but he lets her bring them up, lay her palms on either side of his face and touch her forehead to his. “I fucking love you and I’m tired of smiling when I say you’re not mine, and I’m sick of measuring every word I say and worrying I’ve said too much. And I can’t _stand_ it when they come up to you and run their hands up your arms and flirt with you as if I’m not right fucking there by your side. You’re mine. I’m yours, and you’re _mine_.”

 

She leaps forward and it’s like someone dropped them in the middle of the kiss already, because his lips are parted, waiting for her. She tangles her fingers into his hair and she moves his head just so, deepening the kiss. His tongue is almost driving all thought away from her mind, and she pulls away. “You’re mine,” she breathes into his mouth. They kiss again, desperate and messy, and this time she draws his bottom lip between her teeth, hearing the grunt coming from his throat. They’re breathless, both of them.

 

“So tell them,” he whispers.

 

She opens her eyes. He is staring at her, and he is dead serious. “No announcements. No grand gestures. Tell them, your own way. Say what’s on your mind. And when you want to touch me, touch me,” he says, and he moves his hands to her back, stroking up and down. It’s not a soothing caress. He means to light a fire in her.

 

“Let them think what they want to think,” he continues, his left hand roaming further south. His hand travels to the hem of her bathrobe, then up her thigh to palm her ass. He pushes her against him, and through the layers of clothing she can feel him, already hard. It’s not because of the kiss, she knows, not entirely.

 

It’s because she said she wants to claim him. And he wants to be claimed.

 

“You don’t have to worry about them, and you know you don’t have to worry about me. You just worry about how you want to fuck me tonight,” he whispers in her ear.

 

She feels light as a feather as she pushes the jacket off his shoulders and wraps herself around him. He turns them around, sits down and pulls her on his lap. She opens her legs wider, her knees bending on the desk.

 

“Baby, tell me,” he says, and unties her bathrobe, pushes it off her shoulders. She watches him stare hungrily down her naked body, and his look feels as reverent as the first time he saw her like this. He’s had her a thousand times, though, and she can feel it in the way he possessively splays his hand down her torso.

 

“Baby…” he says in a pleading voice, playing with her nipple to urge her on.

 

“Hard,” she breathes out with a gasp. “I want to fuck you hard.”

 

“Do it,” he says.

 

And so she does, one hand bracing on his shoulder for leverage as she circles her hips against him, over his jeans. It’s a crime that he’s still wearing most of his clothes, and she means to rectify that now, trying to unhook the buttons of his shirt. He scrambles to help her along, and finally she pulls the shirt open, immediately attaching her mouth to his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest and his nipples, everywhere her tongue can reach. She owns this, she owns _all_ of this, and tomorrow, when they dance together, they’ll both feel the marks she left all over him.

 

Sucking the spot between his shoulder and the wild flow of his hair, she gets distracted and slows down the roll of her body. She doesn’t expect it when his hand comes down on her ass sharply, bringing her snug against his cock. A keening sound escapes her, and just as she twists her hips he slaps her again, her clit coming to rough contact with the hard denim of his jeans, making her let out a long moan.

 

“Come on, ride it harder,” he says hotly. “I know you can ride it harder.”

 

She groans and loses control then, wrapping her arms around his neck, her nipples on his chest. Jolts of electricity shoot off towards every part of her body. Her head feels hot and her toes are numb. She rubs her clit on him frantically, rotating in wild circles, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t flown off him with how fast she’s going. He’s helping her hold on, grabbing her ass with both hands, supporting her but not trying to direct her moves. He’s looking up at her, and his eyes are saying _take it, whatever you want, take it_.

 

Suddenly she doesn’t know what took her so long, because he should be inside her, she should have gotten him inside her ever since the moment he walked through the door.

 

“Now, now, fuck me, fuck me,” she chants, and he stands, picks her up with one arm around her waist. She thinks he might throw her on the bed, lift up her knees and fuck her into the mattress. But he doesn’t, he lies on the floor and pulls her on top of him, working on his belt and his buttons. She’s hovering above him, feeling the uncontrollable shiver of anticipation, until he pulls his jeans and his underwear down just enough, and then she lines up his cock and slams down on him.

 

“Tessa,” he breathes, eyes wide open, and rolls his hips up into her.

 

Everything is a blur after that.

 

*

 

On Sunday morning, Tessa knows this is going to be a good day. She starts bouncing restlessly even before practice, and Scott looks at her, bemused.

 

He knows why she’s in this mood, and he has _some_ nerve to be feigning innocence right now.

 

“What? I’m ready, let’s roll!” she says, loudly.

 

She receives a call from her agent (never mind that it’s Sunday), who is very pleased with the performance of her first Instagram post for Starbucks. “They’re gonna love your spontaneity, so try and think of a couple captions, something like the way your feel about your day, and we’ll run it by them, okay?” he says.

 

The way she feels about her day?

 

She tries to imagine a corporate meeting that would have to approve a caption along the lines of, _Well I’ve been fucked good and proper and I’m ready to enjoy a cup of[@starbuckscanada](https://www.instagram.com/starbuckscanada/), what’s new with you guys? #mymorningmyway #partner_.

 

After she hangs up the phone, she says hello to Greg, a photographer who works for Skate Canada and just walked into the rink. Then she joins Scott, who is doing stretches next to the boards. First up in the schedule is rehearsal for _Shape of You_ , and Scott is predictably flirty and handsy with her throughout the run. Normally this might have made her nervous, seeing as there’s a few people in the stands, and Greg is there snapping away, but today it doesn’t even register. The music switches to _Hallelujah_ and Patrick is still doing his warmup next to the ice, so they’re all alone in the rink for a bit. They circle around the ice in long strokes and she feels something akin to her heart bursting.

 

A terrifying thought passes through her mind, uninvited.

 

_How much longer?_

 

It’s not a new thought. It comes to her, occasionally, in moments of happiness and completeness. It’s her darker instincts, trying to nudge their way through her conscious and blind her with fear. _This is too good to last. It’s been way too long already. Something is gonna ruin it all, just you wait._

Usually, she chases the thought away in the blink of an eye. It’s ridiculous, and she refuses to be too scared to live her life. But it takes her a second to pull through, and it’s enough for him to notice.

 

“Tessa, what’s wrong?” he asks, just like he did yesterday when he came into their room, but today his face isn’t unreadable at all. The wrinkles on his forehead have deepened in concern, and his eyes are so bright they’ve practically turned from hazel to green. He twists his body to face her, skating backwards, and fits their palms together through her thermal gloves.

 

“I want to hold you,” she says and jumps into his ready embrace. She wraps her arms tight around his back and relaxes into him.

 

“Any reason in particular?” he chuckles, and turns his face to look at her.

 

She feels serene and quiet when she tells him. “No, I just love you.”

 

(In the end, Greg creates a masterful photograph out of their embrace and her eyes in that moment; she giddily reposts it to her account, and not just because of what Greg captured, but also because it reminds her of what he _didn’t_ capture:

 

Her declaration, and Scott’s worry wrinkles disappearing, and his face breaking into that huge smile of his that she adores, and his voice sounding like an excited five year-old when he says, _You probably never would have guessed it, but I love you back.)_

 

*

 

On Sunday night, Tessa’s good streak continues, until it doesn’t.

 

They’re having a great show. After last night, she feels liberated, and she reaches out to touch him more than she usually dares. So what if Gabby and Kaetlyn seem to laugh with her grabby hands during the opening number? So what if some people in the audience can tell that she is a little different than usual? So what if the videos show, in high-definition clarity, that she is staring at him a little too long and letting her hand linger on his body for more than is necessary?

 

It’s not like anyone can prove anything and jeopardize their privacy. She’ll do what she wants, and not explain herself to anyone but Scott, and everyone will just have to get used to it.

 

Before she knows it, they’re nearing the end of the show, and it’s time for _Moulin Rouge_. The program initially flows like it’s supposed to, until her traitorous skates, the pair that should probably be in a storage room somewhere but is somehow still adorning her feet, do the trick.

 

She gasps on the way down, and automatically she employs every technique she ever learned in order to avoid getting seriously hurt. She is down barely enough for the cold ice to seep through her dress when she feels the pull of Scott’s hands on her arms. His feet are in between hers, and he seems determined to either bring her up or fall alongside her. He helps her get up, checks in with her for the rest of the program, smiles at her after their triumphant last pose.

 

A memory flashes through her head, of the first time a coach told Scott that he was supposed to _let go_ of his partner when she fell. _You don’t want to risk a double injury, son,_ he’d said. It’s safer to move out of the way as quickly as possible, he’d continued, and let her go down.

 

Thirteen-year-old Scott had stared at the older man, and in the cocky tone he always had back then he’d simply said, _nope_. And then he’d laughed.

 

From her spot next to him, eleven-year-old Tessa had blushed and thought to herself, _someday soon he’ll change his mind_.

 

It’s been seventeen years, and he still hasn’t.

 

*

 

Monday noon, they’re on the road back to Montreal. They listen to a secret demo with new songs that Max from the Arkells sent them, and count down the minutes until they’re home.

 

The minute they’re through the door, he runs to the couch and dramatically plops down on it, sighing with exaggerated gratitude. He pops his head back up, and looks at her with puppy eyes.

 

“This very sophisticated couch requires your presence” he says. She walks over to him, narrowing her eyes.

 

“This couch, or the dude on this couch?”

 

“Oh, so now I’m the _dude_?”

 

“Don’t act so offended.”

 

“But I _am_ offended. You have mortally wounded me.”

 

“Oh my, how will I _ever_ make it up to you?”

 

“Hmmm, let me think,” he says, and pulls her down to lie on top of him. She muffles her giggles into the collar of his shirt. “Snuggle up to me for the rest of the day and I’ll consider letting the dude thing go.”

 

“I can do that,” she says, resting her head on his chest and toeing off her flats to tangle her legs with his. He puts his arms around her, pulling her closer, and then he speaks again.

 

“So… Smile credit?”

 

She snaps her head up so quickly it makes her dizzy for a moment.

 

“When did _you_ go on Instagram? I thought I had to hold you at gunpoint to get you to log in.”

 

“It’s called post notifications.”

 

“You turned on notifications? For _me_? I’m so touched.”

 

“Stop deflecting. Smile credit?”

 

He’s trying to pull off a smirk and play it cool, but she can tell from the way his eyes have lit up. He is _ecstatic_.

 

“Yeah. You were the reason for that smile,” she says, and he’s openly beaming at her now. “Besides, I credit you for a lot of things.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Well there’s smile credit, of course, and then there’s laughter credit, happiness credit, love credit,” she pauses for dramatic effect and whispers, “orgasm credit,” and he bursts out laughing, _really now_ , and she laughs along with him. “There’s also keeping me fed credit, but I think that particular cat is out of the bag ever since that cooking segment on CTV.”

 

“Hmmm, I don’t know about that. You make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.” He schools his features into a faux-serious expression. “You should know though, all those other things? I’m going to need to take credit for all of them eventually.”

 

She winks at him.

 

“One thing at a time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> what can i say, i'm a fluffy bitch who LIVES for drama.
> 
> comments are love!


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